The Greek, Interpraetor
by Rector
Summary: A canonesque.


**The Greek, _Interpraeter_.**

**.**

~ A canonesque ~

.

My acknowledgement and thanks to Messrs. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson..

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.

The sun was already beginning its slow summer decent when Sherlock and John arrived at the Diogenes. The club's white neoclassical exterior about as welcoming as an upmarket dentist.

"You never did say why we had to come here tonight," John looked about him in the cool marble-floored foyer, pilasters and entablatures stretching up into the shadows.

"I may owe Mycroft money," Sherlock sounded mildly irritated as they waited to be escorted into the inner sanctum. "A lost bet."

"You lost a bet with your brother?" John found himself on the edge of a smile. "How much for?"

"Only fifty pounds, but that's not what irks," the younger Holmes nodded at the dark-suited, white-gloved porter who was beckoning them to follow. "He's going to be utterly insufferable about it."

Turning half-way up the curved staircase, the porter placed a finger over his lips, waiting until the two visitors understood the requirement for silence.

"Yes, be quiet, John," Sherlock muttered. "You're not supposed to say anything in here."

The porter turned again, frowning, as the tall, dark-haired man affected an innocent air, dropping the expression the instant the attendant turned his back.

Mycroft was waiting for them in the Strangers Room; the only place in the entire building, other than the private offices, that open conversation was accepted.

Laying aside the newspaper he'd been reading, the elder Holmes remained seated as his guests joined him, the beginnings of a smug smile on his face.

"Sherlock, John," he said benignly. "How nice to see you."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock snapped a little as he sank into one of the comfortable leather club seats. "No need to pretend you're happy to see either of us, Mycroft. You only wanted me to come here so you could gloat."

"On the contrary, Sherlock," the elder Holmes crossed his legs, linking his fingers across his lap. "I am genuinely pleased to see you here; our little exercise was most amusing and I wanted to thank you for indulging me."

"Little exercise?" John smiled faintly, not exactly sure what was going on other than it probably involved some sort of intellectual duel; apart from the fraternal bickering or the occasional commission from Mycroft, it was almost their only interaction.

"Solving a minor puzzle, Doctor Watson," Mycroft's smugness increased marginally. "We had a small wager on which of us could come up with the correct solution in the shortest time and I, in this instance, have been the fortunate one."

"You're nearly _always_ the fortunate one," Sherlock observed, a petty emphasis in his words.

"And why's that, then?" as John looked between the brothers, he noted yet again how little either of them, other than in height, resembled either of their parents. Neither he nor Mary had seen the Holmes Ma and Pa since Christmas, but they had both been lovely, ordinary people. And totally unlike either of their sons.

"Because I'm cleverer than he is, John," Mycroft's untroubled tone was indeed, fast approaching the insufferable. "Take for example, those two men, sitting over there by the window."

Sherlock glanced briefly. "The professional billiards-player and his well-dressed friend?"

"Yes," Mycroft met his brother's gaze and lifted his eyebrows. "Who is the friend?"

"Retired soldier," Sherlock lifted his.

"Very recently retired."

"Served in Brunei."

"A Colour Sergeant, in fact."

"In the infantry."

"A widower."

"A widower with a child," Sherlock tilted his head.

"Children, brother dear, _children_," Mycroft's smile grew wider.

"Yeah, alright, you two," John lifted a hand as if in surrender. "I already know you're both scarily clever; there's no need to rub it in."

"Apologies, Doctor," the elder Holmes was sweetness and light. "Remiss of us to play when you cannot."

Sherlock sniffed dismissively, flicking a second glance at the two men by the window. "Difficult to miss the way the man holds himself; the authority in his gestures, the military haircut and the dark tan; clearly a soldier, but more than a private, served most recently somewhere hot and sunny. The level of the tan line on his neck indicates the wearing of a Mark-6 helmet, standard kit for the British infantry."

"And most recently retired since the haircut is still so neat and the tan line so very clear, of course," Mycroft nodded. "Brunei, not Africa? Are you quite sure?"

"There's a residual tint of yellow in the whites of his eyes, the classic aftermath of jaundice, highly prevalent in Borneo and the South China Sea," the last words over-enunciated. "Colour Sergeant?" Sherlock sounded vaguely curious.

"Clearly a senior NCO; the slight greying at the temples suggests a career-soldier, that the man is dressed well but inconspicuously argues a decent pension and yet he's still wearing his issue black boots, a mark of pride for sergeants the world around," Mycroft smiled widely. "And a widower by the fact that in one of his bags he has a child's lunch box and a school letter addressed to a _Mr_ Greenaway, when it would automatically be addressed to both parents were the wife alive."

"But mightn't he be divorced?" John wondered how Mycroft could be so sure.

"He's wearing a wedding ring, John," Sherlock answered quietly. "Balance of probability suggests the wife died rather than divorced."

"That there are _children_ rather than a single child is evidenced by both the school lunch box in the one bag, and the packet of disposable nappies in the other, raising the possibility that the poor woman died of complications following her delivery," the elder Holmes looked momentarily morose. "However," he brightened. "That is not the reason for this evening's gathering. A small celebration may be in order, I believe," he said, signalling to one of the waiting attendants. "Scotch?"

Settling back in the comfortable chair, John sipped the smoky amber spirit and felt himself relax. It was good to get out of Baker Street for reasons other than chasing after his mad flatmate and, despite the fact that this was Mycroft's club, it wasn't actually a bad place. It served a good single malt, at least.

"So what's the thing with the minor puzzle you mentioned?" he asked. "Some fiendishly complicated international spy-code that you had a race to crack, or what?"

"Actually, no," Sherlock stretched out his long legs to one side of John's chair, swirling the scotch in his glass. "It involved a horse, a kidnapping, blackmail and theft."

"So, a case then?" John relished the warm smoulder of the scotch. "A horse?"

"A racehorse, to be precise, John," Mycroft stretched out his legs to the other side. "A very expensive racehorse."

"And a man called Melas," Sherlock added. "Greek."

"So, go on then," John finished his drink. "Tell me."

Looking through the finger of scotch remaining in his glass, Mycroft sighed. "Melas is a bloodstock agent, one of the best in London," he said. "Knows more about the breeding lines of European thoroughbreds than most people know about their own family. Buyers and Cartels often call on him for his incredible knowledge-base."

"Melas was abducted off the street in Pall Mall almost four months ago," Sherlock sat up and took over the story. "He said he was taken at gunpoint in an expensive car with blacked-out windows. The man responsible for the abduction told him they were going somewhere where Melas was to meet someone to find out details of a certain horse, as his employer knew nothing about bloodlines or racing records or management, none of it."

"So this Melas guy was being kidnapped because he would know the right questions to ask?" John unconsciously waggled his empty glass.

"Indeed," Mycroft nodded. "The car travelled either for quite some distance or in a deliberately circuitous route in order to disguise the location of the eventual destination, but it was somewhere either in the country or in a private estate; Melas recalled only a vague impression of a lawn and trees on each side as they entered the house. Most of the lights were off or dimmed."

One of the club's waiters arrived at John's side, a fresh glass of scotch on a small silver tray. Surprised, but not unhappy, John smiled.

"Don't mind if I do, thank you very much," he nodded affably at the attendant and took the drink.

"Melas was naturally somewhat curious as to the reason for both his abduction and the lengthy trip," Sherlock crossed his legs. "Upon inquiry, he was advised by, and I quote, 'a small man with glasses' there was someone in the house with information on a certain horse. This person was being unforthcoming with said information, essentially because they didn't know the appropriate questions to ask."

"Which is where Melas comes in," John nodded appreciatively, sipping his fresh scotch. "Because he knew everything there was to know about horses and breeding, he'd know immediately if the answers were kosher."

"Quite," the elder Holmes frowned slightly. "His captors took him deeper into the house, a large, rambling affair, until the three of them reached a sizeable and luxuriously-appointed room, although Melas admitted it was difficult to see because there was only one light and that was dimmed to the point of inadequacy. There was sufficient light, however, for him to see an empty chair in the middle of the room."

"Almost immediately they arrived, a woman was brought in and forced to sit in the chair," Sherlock linked his fingers, attentiveness making his pale blue eyes glint. "According to Melas, the woman was youngish, wearing a long dressing-gown and walked as if she were in pain. She looked pale and ill, but most significantly, her face was almost completely covered in strips of duct-tape; it was even being used as a gag."

"_Jesus_," John looked dismayed. "Did Melas know the woman?"

"No, Doctor, the unfortunate captive was unknown to Melas at the time. The two men handed him a laptop on which there was a document, a deed of sale for an unnamed horse, or so it appeared, and asked him to confirm the salient points of the document with the woman in the chair," Mycroft steepled his fingers under his chin, an odd half-smile on his face.

"They wanted Melas to check if all the relevant details were complete; the proper and appropriate details of the animal are, for instance, a principal element of any thoroughbred sale," Sherlock's expression was animated.

Observing the two of them, John very nearly smiled again. Mycroft, so serious and aloof; Sherlock, wide-eyed and intense. So different, the pair of them. And yet how similar. Finishing the dregs of the scotch, he waved the empty glass between the two Holmes. "It's indecent the way you two get excited over some poor woman being kidnapped and coerced, possibly even tortured," he said. "What happened next?"

"Melas is an intelligent man; he realised something highly illegal was going on the minute the men told him what they wanted," the elder Holmes relaxed in his chair, raising his eyes to the distant ceiling before refocusing on John. "He started asking the woman questions about the horse's registration of lineage, the provenance of its parentage, the usual things, handing the woman the laptop so she could type her answers. What the two men watching didn't realise was that Melas was also asking the woman for covert information at the same time."

"It was cleverly done," Sherlock agreed. "When asking her about the horse's sire, he also asked for the sire's location of birth ... a nonsense piece of data which the woman clearly understood to be a question about _her_."

"And where was she born?" John found himself engrossed in the tale and leaned back for greater comfort, only to find the attendant once more at his shoulder with a fresh scotch.

"Look, this is very good of you," he met the man's eyes. "But I don't think I actually should drink any more ..."

'Better take it John," Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "You may hurt his feelings otherwise."

In a strange place with very strange rules and with two very decent single malts inside him already, John hardly felt in any position to argue. "Oh, well, in _that_ case," he shrugged, accepting the cool glass with good grace.

"Greece," Sherlock picked up the narrative. "The woman's answer indicated that she was _Greek_, from Athens, to be precise."

"Of course, upon discovering their shared nationality, Melas was even more determined to find out what was going on and even attempt to free his compatriot if he possibly could," Mycroft looked thoughtful. "Not sure why he would feel that way, but there we are; such an impassioned people, the Greeks."

"Through his questions, Melas found that the woman was being starved and badly treated by the two men until she agreed to sign over her half of a racehorse inherited from her father, but so far, that she had refused to do so. Her captives were planning to forge her signature on the deed, but first wanted to be sure it was totally legit and would pass any later scrutiny or audit," Sherlock grinned. "A moderately clever scam, although I can think of at least four ways to render even the most perfect of sales documents null and void."

"Of course you can," John grinned easily. "Because _you're_ Sherlock Holmes and you're _always_ right, that's why," the blonde man grinned even harder, the better part of three scotches on an empty stomach having something of a relaxing effect.

"It was at that point, of course, that the entire scenario grows complicated," Mycroft narrowed his eyes, assessing the doctor's increasingly candid manner. "Melas reported that almost at the same time he'd decided to try and free the woman, another man entered through the room's far door, only to stop, utterly horrified by the scene before him. According to Melas, the man took one look at the woman in the chair and called out 'Sophy, Sophy'."

"But she wouldn't have been able to answer because of the duct-tape," John nodded, a deadly serious cast to his features. "The bastards," he pointed the now empty glass at his flatmate. "I bet you could've stopped them or called the police or something."

"Yes, quite, John," one corner of Mycroft's mouth curled as if amused. "Before Melas could react, the newcomer was pushed back through the door and the woman was dragged out of the room, the man with the gun returning to escort Melas from the house and back into the car where he was eventually dropped near Wandsworth Common."

"An' how did you get to hear about all this?" John stretched out himself, sliding down into his chair a little, almost afraid to turn his head as a now-familiar shape materialised at his shoulder. "You have got to be kidding me ..." he looked round and stared the fourth scotch square in the eye. Lifting his gaze, he could see the deadpan expression of the waiter, but had no idea what to say. Sighing, he said nothing, just took the proffered glass, making it comfortable on his chest. "Pray continue," he smiled regally at Holmes the elder.

Sucking in a slow breath, Mycroft raised an imperious eyebrow.

"Melas is a member of the Diogenes, so naturally, Big Brother got to hear all about it," Sherlock watched as John became one with his chair, all stress apparently leaving his friend's body. "Which is when he told me the story and we decided to have our little wager on the outcome of the Greek mystery."

"So you know the upshot of the situation?" John pushed himself fractionally upright, fanning himself with the open collar of his shirt. _God, it got really warm in these old places_.

"Not precisely; Melas has agreed to meet us here this evening to provide the details. However, I deduced that the woman was indeed part-owner of a valuable racehorse and that the man who called her _Sophy_, was in fact her brother who had inherited the other half-share following the death of their father. The sister, Sophy, wanted total ownership and hoped to persuade her brother accordingly," Sherlock turned to look at his sibling. "Though of course, Mycroft reached a somewhat _different_ conclusion."

"And what was that, then?" feeling a bit like a noddy-dog, John swivelled his head around to face the older Holmes.

"My deductions were similar except in one crucial area," Mycroft smiled a superior smile. "I realised very quickly that it was not the lady's brother who had called her by name and who would have been unlikely to leave an ill-treated sibling so easily, but rather her estranged _husband_, and that the horse was jointly owned between them. However, most likely due to a prenuptial agreement, should they ever divorce, the full ownership of the horse would revert to the husband."

"So ..." John's thoughts moved like mud. "If the woman was after the horse, why was she the one being tied up with the duct-tape?"

"A ruse, John," Mycroft beamed. "To persuade her husband to give up his half of the creature more willingly so that, when she divorced him, as she was undoubtedly going to do, he could not reclaim it as per their earlier agreement."

"That's rather ... clever," the blonde man blinked slowly. "But you don't know this for _sure_, do you?" he looked between the Holmes brothers. "You could _both_ be wrong?"

The flat silence that followed this suggestion was of the sort usually experienced in the eye of one of the larger cyclones.

"Ah, Mycroft!" a man of medium height strolled over to greet them. "Congratulations on solving my little puzzle."

Standing politely, Mycroft made the introductions; this was indeed Melas, the bloodstock expert of the story.

"So," Sherlock also stood, facing the shorter man. "Was my brother completely correct? Did he solve the entire mystery?"

Observing the newspaper Mycroft had been reading, the Greek horse-expert flipped it over, holding up the front page. Just below the fold was a photograph of a magnificent horse streaking past the finish post at Epsom.

"See for yourself," he said.

"Incredible racing comeback stuns afternoon crowd," Sherlock read. "A recent change of management has seen the previously forgettable sprinter achieve new heights of success. 'I realised my ex-husband didn't know anything about horses,' laughed Sophy Loukas, new owner and manager of the Greek _Interpraetor_..." he stopped, turning to Mycroft and pulling out his wallet. "To the victor go the spoils," he said, handing over a crisp fifty-pound note.

"Sorry to disillusion you about my brother's abilities, Doctor Watson," Mycroft sounded entirely too pleased with himself. "He's not _always_ right, you know ..."

Both Holmes brothers looked down at John, utterly asleep in the dark leather chair.

"You should have told him the waiters in the Diogenes are trained to silent signals, Mycroft," Sherlock frowned. "After that much proofed alcohol, he's going to sleep for hours."

"I'll send him home in a cab when he wakes," the elder Holmes held out his hand. "Cab fare?"

"You have my last fifty," Sherlock grinned. "_Sorry_."


End file.
